


No Consequences in Doing Magic

by Fanne



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Gen, Quentin Coldwater's mental health, Self-Harm, that no-secret-cutting shit from the keg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanne/pseuds/Fanne
Summary: Quentin discovers a peculiar advantage to doing magic. Eliot finds out about it.
Kudos: 22





	No Consequences in Doing Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers (I guess?) for 2x13, but this is set in the first season. I was intrigued by Eliot's "You gave her the no-secret-cutting shit from the keg, right?", implying that this was a well-known potion. Now another plot bunny of course if why Mayakovsky has it and why there's a keg of it, but this here is the result of another plot bunny. 
> 
> Heed the warnings! See end for more notes on the warnings.

It wasn't that he'd never tried it. It was, after all, such a part of mainstream culture that it would be hard not to give it a thought. And if by "give it a thought" you meant "thoroughly partake in it", then yes, Quentin had tried self-harm. It had helped, at first, and had been a constant companion in his life for a year or two. But after a while, the ratio of relief to effort-in-keeping-it-hidden just wasn't worth it anymore. Julia would pester him if she saw any fresh cuts or burns, and the more invisible methods just weren't the same. To be honest, at some point his depression simply made him realise that this, too, was useless. And so he mostly stopped, most of the time.

That was until magic. The wonder and appeal of the first few months had passed, and what remained was pressure, memorisation, competition and useful healing spells. It had started innocuously enough, Eliot patching him up after a pesky paper cut. It was innocent and harmless and neither of them had given much thought to it, but somewhere in Quentin's psyche, the thought had stayed. He could do it again, now, with no one finding out. He just had to master these quick healing spells. But would it help... would such a muggle technique of mood stabilisation actually help him in a magical world?

At first it didn't. It was anticlimactic, more akin to learning how to speak a long-forgotten language than to the wave of relief he was used to. But at the same time, the habit felt familiar, comforting, and, just like relearning the language, it came back quickly to him. The right pressure, the right angle, the right amount to get the precarious balance of relief and control. Then a few tuts and none of the wiser. The pain didn't last as long afterwards, the healing process sped up by the spells and working their way quickly from the epidermis (immediately sealed closed) to the dermis (which took a couple more days), but since it avoided the itching, he was fine with it. He was fine with all of it.

Not having to hide any marks or scars was a relief. Consequence-free cutting! Another perk of magic, Quentin thought ironically as he distractingly listened to class. A shuffling chair brought him back to the present and he hastily checked that his wards were still on. He definitely did not want Penny to eavesdrop on these thoughts, his relationship with the man was already complicated enough.

It was going swimmingly well (ha! said his subconscious as he mended his forearm for the fourth time that day) until there was a mishap with a first year in the Cottage. A battle magic spell gone wrong in the common room (pfft, newbies), a couple of rattled students, and Eliot and Quentin were accompanying them to the infirmary like the Responsible Adults they were.

The students were being patiently cared for by a couple of trainees (Professor Lipson was apparently gone to a concert. On a schoolnight!) while Eliot and Quentin sat on a nearby bed and shared a flask of strong alcohol. Their silence was companionable, bored, if not a bit guilty. It was no secret that Eliot often acted like the Cottage’s high king, with all the ill-placed responsibility it created. Sure, he hadn’t pushed these students into a fight, but it had happened under his roof and oh wow, he sounded like his father and didn’t want to go down that particular train of thought. Quentin was fidgeting awkwardly, uncomfortable in the infirmary, as he was everywhere. 

The trainees were looking through lenses at the students and discussing something amongst themselves when one of them turned around to face the two waiting men, lenses still in front of her eyes. “Which wards did you say are in pl….. whoa, what happened to you? Why do you have so many healing spells on your arms?”

Oh, thought Quentin. The lack of privacy he could have expected, this was Brakebills after all. But he definitely had not been aware that the spells were visible through lenses, to healers, when they were invisible to everyone else. He felt Eliot stiffen and look down at his arms, and without missing a beat, say “You know us Physical Kids. Always getting into trouble.”

Shocked into silence, Quentin just nodded and froze on the bed until they were all allowed to leave. He did not look at Eliot, did not say anything, but felt him glance at him several times. As they helped the first years walk back to the Cottage, Eliot just leaned over to him and whispered, in what he did not intend to be a threatening way, “We are SO having a talk about this when we get home.”

Quentin did not wait when they got back to the Cottage, and walked straight up to his bedroom, breathing heavily. Panic was hitting him in waves at what was coming, his mind frantically trying to come up with excuses. Bad spell practice with Alice? Unfortunate accident with a flying book? Enchanted kitchen knife skills gone wrong? But he’d seen Eliot’s reaction, knew that he wouldn’t fall for it. Eliot knew, he knew. 

He sat crossed-legged on his bed and clutched a pillow in a most embarrassing way that he would later deny. He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake, and he could do what he want, he thought as he rocked slightly on the bed before throwing the pillow away. He was getting up again when he heard the faint knock on the door and he suddenly fell back to the bed and pulled up his knees as the door opened. 

Eliot didn’t seem angry, or impatient, but he did seem like the last place he wanted to be was in this room. Quentin felt a surge of anger in his chest. He wasn’t forcing anyone to have this conversation! But Eliot walked regally inside the room and shut the door behind him. 

“So. You have a secret.”

Quentin rolled his eyes and feebly tried to defend himself. “It’s not what you th…”

“Save it, Q. We both know what’s going on.” Quentin imitated a fish for a few syllables but then wisely shut up. 

“Look.” Eliot closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked a bit sick. It did not bode well. “I worry about you, Q.” He paused again, and Quentin wasn’t sure whether to wait patiently or to roll his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation; probably not the last, either. “It worries me that you’re hurting yourself.” 

Suddenly, Quentin didn’t feel quietly submissive anymore. He got up from his seated position on the bed, and started gesticulating at Eliot. “Really? You’re going to judge me about this, when you have how many drugs hidden up in your room? How much alcohol have you even already had today? And you’re going to judge MY self-destructive habits? I won’t have it.”

He turned to leave, remembered this was his own room, turned back towards the bed and finally decided he would leave anyway. He finally succeeded in leaving the room in a huff, barely avoiding slamming the door. He didn’t need that additional act to remind him even more of his teenage years.

~~~~~

Neither Quentin nor Eliot brought it up again, and after a few awkward silences when being in the same room, things eventually got back to normal. If Eliot was a bit more discrete in his drug abuse, and if Quentin wore long sleeves that he stubbornly did not roll up (even though his arms were clean to the untrained eyes), neither of them mentioned anything. Two or three days later, Eliot even offered him a make-up cocktail. He didn’t call it as such, of course, but he offered him a fancy drink with an intense stare that Quentin interpreted as an apology. He drank it, in a way that he hoped meant ‘I accept your apology’. It’s only later that night that he realized it hadn’t been an apology at all. 

He was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, leaning against his bed frame, razor blade in his hand and - nothing. He couldn’t bring the blade to his skin. He wanted to, he was trying to, but it just wouldn’t connect. Changing body part did nothing to fix this new problem. He could cut fabric, wood, carpet, but not skin. He couldn’t even pinch his skin or punch his own arm. It was as if his hand was caught in a spell and oh, the motherfucker. He got up in such a fury that he left the blade behind on the floor, and stormed off to where Eliot was lounging on an armchair in the common room. 

“You motherfucker! What did you do to me? What have you done?” he yelled at him. Eliot just stared up from his book, looking both sad and tired. He said nothing, considering carefully whether he should lie or feign ignorance. He hadn’t been sure how the potion would work, whether Quentin would be aware of its effects or not. To be frank, he’d hoped it would just take away the urge. 

Quentin was breathing heavily in front of him and putting two and two together. 

“The drink! It was the drink! What was in it? What did you give me?” 

A bit further down the room, a few curious students were glancing in their directions, their gossip-radar alerted by the raised voices. Eliot sighed and put down the book, sitting up straighter.

“It’s a potion against self-harm.”

Quentin took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. His face just grew redder in anger and his jaw clenched down tight. When it was apparent that he would not, or could not, say anything, Eliot continued. “As I said, I’m worried about you.”

Quentin shuddered and then said, quietly. “So you drugged me against my will? Does consent mean nothing to you?”

“Would you have taken it if I’d asked?” Eliot asked plainly. 

“Of course not!” Quentin yelled out, then quieted down some more when he saw the students looking again. “This - this - this thing I do, it helps me. Why would I want to give it away! Sometimes it’s the only thing keeping me alive, did you even think about that?”

Eliot hadn’t, of course; he’d had only one goal and it was to stop any immediate harm. He’d read about the potion in the library, brewed it easily enough, and figured it (quite literally) couldn’t hurt. At the same time, he’d hoped it would give them enough time to talk this through, find options. He knew stopping the cutting (or whatever Quentin was doing?) wasn’t a cure, just a (ha!) bandaid solution. But Eliot, with his deep dislike of emotions and incapability of expressing them, couldn’t explain this. He wanted to, and tried to, “Quentin -“, but his friend interrupted him. 

“No. This conversation is over. Don’t talk to me again.”

Quentin stormed back off and went back upstairs, leaving Eliot to sit there, lost.

~~~~

It was only maybe half an hour later that Eliot crept back up and quietly knocked on Quentin’s door. “Go away!” was the predictable answer. He went in anyway, even if it meant using a few unlocking spells. What’s friendship without some consent and privacy issues, right? Well, if Quentin still considered him his friend. 

Quentin was laying face down on his bed in a totally ungraceful position, and turned to rest on his back and elbows on the bed to glare at Eliot, who noticed the tear stains on the bedsheet and the razor blade on the floor. 

As an opening, he chose “The potion wears off quickly.” It was the right choice, as Quentin softened his murderous stare and looked relieved. Too relieved to Eliot’s taste, really. “But…” He took a deep breath, and hurried on before he could change his mind. “Can we talk about this? Can we find some ways to keep you safe? Help me out, here, I want to help and am obviously going about it the wrong way.” 

Quentin had the audacity to scoff. “Well, no shit.” 

But since it wasn’t yelling and Quentin hadn’t thrown anything at him (yet), he approached slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. Quentin crawled back up towards the head board to sit in a protective position. He wasn’t trustful, but at least he wasn’t throwing him out. 

“I need this.” He finally offered quietly, so quietly that Eliot looked up at him to make sure he had indeed spoken. Instead of responding with a platitude, he nodded, willing himself to understand. “I can’t just stop,” Quentin eventually continued. “That’s not how it works.”

Grasping at the lifeline, Eliot asked, “How does it work?”, genuinely curious. He could ask questions. Questions didn’t involve feelings, did they?

Quentin just shook his head. He couldn’t explain, he couldn’t lay himself bare even more than he’d already been forced to. He looked down at his hands, fiddling with a thread from the bedcover. Eliot didn’t press him. After a while, he gathered his courage and asked, “Can you - could you - tell me when you…”. Quentin looked up at him with a disbelieving look and tears welling up in his eyes. He shook his head no. “No, no, I can’t…” Eliot nodded and again, didn’t press him. “How about, can you promise to come hang out when…? Just, hang out, no talking?” Eliot waited for another refusal but was surprised to see Quentin consider it. He hoped he was considering it seriously and not just to placate him. He’d never know. 

Finally, Quentin just said, “You can’t fix this, Eliot.” He looked resigned, but calm, as if suddenly this wasn’t about him anymore but about Eliot. Both men stared at each other for a while.

Eliot eventually nodded and looked away. He sniffed, regained some of his composure, and got up suddenly. But instead of leaving, moved closer to Quentin and knelt down by the bedside. He gently caressed his friend’s face in his hand and told him with all the determination he could muster, “I know I can’t fix this. But I also won’t let you hurt yourself if there’s anything I can do about it.” 

He stood back up and turned to leave, but stopped in his track when he heard Quentin take a deep breath as if to say something. 

“Eliot. Can you…? Stay. Please.” Quentin stammered, not making eye contact. As simple as the request sounded, there were volumes hiding behind it. Eliot smiled and simply walked back towards the bed where Quentin was scooting over to make him some space. “Of course, Q. Of course.” He sat in companionable silence, and for now, that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about self-harm, though it's not particularly graphic. The more problematic issue is perhaps the consent issue in Eliot giving Quentin a potion to keep him from harming himself, without him knowing about it. He meant well, and they discuss it, but it's still there.


End file.
